


In the Blind Spot of Your Heart

by gallantrejoinder



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Blind Man's Bluff, Blindfolds, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Touching, Unrelated to my other Pilgrimage fic but could theoretically be related to that universe, Unresolved Sexual Tension, You don't need to have read that one for this to make sense though!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: ... There lies the truth.The monastery hosts pilgrims. They bring with them a lightness and joy the residents have not felt for years.





	In the Blind Spot of Your Heart

It is an old game, one which – strictly speaking – they ought not to play; they are, after all, monks. Their duties are humble and their thoughts ought to remain with God and God alone.

But they have visitors, currently. Visitors who bring a child with them, of all things, to this desolate and cold place. The eldest amongst them is an old woman – near a crone, in truth – accompanied by her daughter, a woman with hard lines around her mouth that soften into smiles around her babe. The child has recently learned to talk, and toddles around in the cold babbling nonsense to all who meet her, making them smile.

The child’s name is Matilda, for her mother is English. Her mother is almost too old to have birthed one so young, but they do not question her. She comes, with the old woman – her mother – to pay pilgrimage to the rock. Perhaps in thanks for the safe birth.

He does not know for certain. When the visitors had learned that amongst the monks lived one unbound by their vows, they began to keep their distance from him. He does not begrudge them that. They have every right to want to be safe, and every reason not to trust a man like him.

Still, they venture close to the monks – especially their novice. Especially Diarmuid.

No one who looks at _him_ can think him capable of harbouring evil intent.

They eat together, the visitors and the monks, and the child chatters endlessly about her discoveries – putting rocks and grasses and flowers in the laps of Brother Rua, Brother Ciarán, Brother Cathal, making them smile. She especially enjoys sitting with Diarmuid, who nods at her with a serious look on his face, as if she is saying something very important. Matilda’s mother smiles, her grandmother takes her daughter’s hand.

He watches from a distance, silent as always, and feels … content. Content with just this. Just being allowed to see.

One afternoon, when the sun is warm enough for him to strip off his tunic, leaving his shirt on to cover his scars, the little one demands they play a game. Despite their prayers and the work that needs doing – constant mending, sewing, planting – the monks agree; at least a few, who can be spared. The mother smiles gratefully at that, for little Matilda has been fussy most of the day, and needs distracting.

They set up in the narrow meadow between the rise which leads to the monastery and the woods. They decide on Blindman’s Bluff, and Brother Ciarán is the one who ventures over to his place in the trees to explain it to him.

“They blindfold the chosen individual,” he remarks, pointing to Matilda, who is giggling so effusively that even her grandmother laughs at her as Brother Rua ties a strip of cloth around the little one’s head. “And then the blind man must find the other participants through sound alone. And when they do, they must feel the face of who they have found to discover the identity of their catch.”

He gives no sign of understanding – his vow might not cover a nod or shake of the head, but he acts as if it does regardless. Brother Ciarán only remains with him a few more moments before being drawn into the game, as the little girl stumbles from place to place, following her mother’s teasing voice one moment, Diarmuid’s gentle encouragement the next.

She catches on the edges of their robes – even grabs a fistful of her mother’s dress, at one point. But it is Brother Cathal who trips over in the end, to find a little girl jumping on top of him and grabbing at his face, proclaiming his identity. All present laugh as he protests the rules – half-heartedly, of course, to make Matilda laugh. Then the blindfold is his to run about in for a little longer. The girl delights in making him run this way and that, until they are all quite exhausted.

He watches them flag, until finally, the time cannot be put off any longer for their prayers. The mother thanks the monks for entertaining her daughter, and the grandmother sniffs, and says they’d better be getting along, to make some use of themselves.

He wanders away, into the woods while the afternoon light is still fading into evening. He props himself against a tree and closes his eyes a little while, thinking all the time of Diarmuid’s face, more youthful than he has ever seen it, taking simple pleasure in a children’s game. Perhaps a game he never had the chance to play as a child. Not with the monks for company.

Diarmuid is somehow both breathtakingly young and achingly old all at once. Diarmuid attends to his prayers and his duties with the soul of a man much older; with faithfulness and love, real _love_ for his God. Yet in the ways of the world Diarmuid remains sheltered and inexperienced and he wants – he wants – to protect that innocence. To never have it tainted by men like him, in whom violence lives, thrives.

There is an ache inside him. A thing which grips his heart like ice curling across a window, while inside, a hearth’s fire flickers light across the glass. It burns brightest when he contemplates Diarmuid – his freely given smiles, his constant talking, the hidden strength of his body; and then the ice hardens, cracks, when he thinks about how young Diarmuid still is.

He walks back towards the meadow just as the sun begins to set, and just at the treeline, he stops, startled. Before him, in the meadow, sits Diarmuid.

Diarmuid stands at his approach, turning to glance nervously into the woods. Seeing it is only him, though, Diarmuid relaxes his posture and waves.

“There you are,” he calls, shaking his head. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

He gestures into the woods. With Diarmuid, he makes the effort to communicate what he can – though he rarely needs to, for Diarmuid seems to know his needs better than himself, sometimes.

“I missed out on being the blind man,” Diarmuid says, as he slows to a stop before him. Diarmuid looks up at him, through his lashes. “I was wondering – if you wouldn’t mind –”

He holds up a strip of cloth. There is the edge of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Well. The visitors _have_ been a bad influence then.

(Or, perhaps, a good one. Diarmuid has never had the chance to act as childishly as this.)

He nods, and takes the cloth from Diarmuid.

“Thank you.”

He shakes his head, and walks around Diarmuid to tie the cloth around his eyes. Diarmuid reaches up to adjust the blindfold, and he takes great care not to let his fingers linger too long as he ties the knot. He feels the warmth of Diarmuid’s skull, the softness of his curls, for just a few moments nonetheless.

He drops his hands and steps back, and suddenly feels foolish. He cannot call to Diarmuid.

“Don’t worry – I will listen for your footsteps,” Diarmuid says, as if able to tell his thoughts.

He takes a few steps back, allowing himself just the tiniest smile, where Diarmuid cannot see. Just as he promised, Diarmuid turns at the sound, and lurches towards him. He moves backwards, nimbly. Diarmuid follows.

Despite himself – he finds himself enjoying the game. It is hard not to be amused as Diarmuid stumbles about, laughing at his inability to find his target. He moves so quickly to get away, he practically dances. He moves like a child around the meadow, and, to his amazement, discovers that he is smiling. He cannot remember the last time he felt so young. He cannot remember the last time he felt this light.

And that in itself is a considerable distraction, for Diarmuid catches hold of his sleeve only a moment after that realisation. He doesn’t attempt to get away. Diarmuid presses a hand against his chest, and his laughter dies away, uncertain, though the ghost of his smile remains.

Diarmuid should take off the blindfold now. The game is won.

But he does not.

Diarmuid lets his hands creep up, towards his face. His sleeves begin to slip back, exposing his forearms. The game is over, but Diarmuid is insisting on the final step – identifying his catch.

Diarmuid places his hands gently over his cheeks. His fingertips run through his beard. Then up, over the bridge of his nose. Over his eyelids with his forefinger. Then down once more. To his mouth. Pulling at the lower lip with his thumb.

He thinks, _I would do anything for you. For this_. The fire blazes, and the ice thickens.

Diarmuid pulls back, reaching for the blindfold. He pushes it away from his eyes, blinking in the grey twilight up at him.

 “Caught you,” Diarmuid whispers.

His heart pounds.

In the distance, the bell rings for Compline. Diarmuid blinks, turning towards the sound. And without another word, with his eyes to the ground, he hurries away to pray.

He stands still as a stone in the gathering darkness. He thinks of the fire which cannot be put out. He thinks of the ice which threatens to crack the glass.

He thinks without words, of nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Not to be all "please clap", but remember to comment if you liked, thank you!!


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